


In Tight Spaces

by cirnellie



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Action/Adventure, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 09:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6464173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirnellie/pseuds/cirnellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya was not, <i>absolutely not</i>, going to have sex with Napoleon against the wall of a tiny, filthy little hidey hole, while in the middle of a mission to boot. The KGB had taught him better than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Tight Spaces

 

Napoleon was enjoying himself.

He and Illya were guests at a dinner that was being held at a large, stately old mansion deep in the English countryside. Their host, a minor lord, was rumored to be financing gun-running operations for THRUSH, and his and Illya's mission that evening was to determine if the rumors were indeed true. Gaby, in the meantime, was working another aspect of the mission, tracing the weapons and determining where exactly they were being routed to.

At the current moment, Napoleon was involved in nothing more strenuous than making conversation with their host’s wife, Lady Sarah, while keeping a sharp eye on her husband, who was deep in a discussion of the year’s hunting season with a small group of fellow enthusiasts. Illya had snuck up to their host’s private study, and was, hopefully, currently in the process of extracting information on his finances while Napoleon made sure the host couple stayed put in the drawing room with their guests.

Lady Sarah was young and beautiful, and a charming conversationalist. Napoleon felt that he’d definitely gotten the better end of the deal for this mission. He’d even managed to stroll down Savile Row two days ago and get a new suit tailored, it hadn’t rained the entire week they’d been in London, which was in itself a minor miracle, and the mission was going smoothly.

Predictably, that last bit didn’t hold true for long.

Glancing at the clock on the wall out of the corner of his eye, he politely excused himself and headed in the general direction of the men’s room. Once he was round the corner and out of sight of his hosts and their guests, he turned and climbed up the ornate flight of stairs leading up to his host’s private rooms, where Illya should be.

Reaching the top of the stairs and proceeding down a couple of corridors, he almost cannoned into Illya coming round the corner at full speed. There were shouts coming from behind him, rapidly growing louder.

“Oh no,” said Napoleon.

“ _Run,_ ” said Illya.

 

***

 

They dashed down seemingly endless corridors, heading ever deeper into the mansion; then Napoleon abruptly stopped, pressed hard on a seemingly random panel in the wall, and grinned in triumph as a small portion of the wall swung inward like a door.

The door turned out to open into a microscopically tiny and extremely dusty alcove, with just enough space to fit two well-built grown men, if neither of those men had any personal space issues.

“I hope you're not claustrophobic,” Napoleon said cheerfully, and unceremoniously shoved Illya inside. He immediately followed Illya in, quickly and quietly pulling the door shut behind them.

"Cowboy. What – ”

“ _Shhh._ ”

Footsteps thundered by outside, followed by the occasional barked order, then the noises slowly faded to silence.

Claustrophobia would have been preferable to this, Illya thought despairingly, half-squashed up against a dirty wall with Napoleon practically wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck, one muscled thigh wedged between his legs. He grimaced and concentrated on thinking about unsexy things.

“It's a priest hole,” said Napoleon, his lips brushing Illya's ear.

Reflexively, Illya shivered. “I know what it is, Cowboy,” he replied as irritably as he could, to cover his momentary lapse. “But how did you know it was _here_?”

“Lady Sarah showed it to me earlier.” Illya couldn't even see Napoleon as the room was pitch black, but the bastard was radiating smugness. He felt an unanticipated stab of jealousy, and scowled into the darkness.

“Jealous, Peril?”

Illya’s scowl deepened. Apparently Napoleon had developed mind-reading abilities, as if he didn't already have enough ways to annoy Illya.

“No,” he replied shortly. “Don't be an idiot.”

“Sarah introduced me to a couple of her friends earlier,” mused Napoleon, still speaking directly into Illya’s ear. It felt weirdly intimate. “ _Pretty_ friends. I could ask her to introduce one of them to you,” he offered magnanimously.

“I think I will pass.”

“Or,” continued Napoleon thoughtfully, as if Illya hadn’t spoken at all, “I could...” he pressed even closer to Illya, nosing his way from Illya’s ear to his cheek to the corner of his mouth, “…do this,” he whispered, and stopped moving about half an inch from Illya’s lips.

Illya frowned in confusion, having been expecting Napoleon to...well, he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, exactly, but he’d been expecting _something_. Napoleon was so close that Illya could feel the other man’s breath on his lips – and then he realized that Napoleon was _asking permission_ , and couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from curling up despite himself. It was a good thing it was dark, because if Napoleon had seen that, he’d never let Illya live it down.

“Idiot,” he said gruffly, and leaned that last half-inch forward.

Napoleon, Illya discovered with some dismay, had not, after all, been exaggerating when he’d modestly informed Illya that some of his lady friends had told him he was a good kisser. Napoleon was an _excellent_ kisser, one hand coming up to cup Illya’s jaw, his other hand tangling in blond hair, eagerly licking his way into Illya’s mouth when Illya tentatively parted his lips, mapping his partner’s mouth thoroughly.

Illya would’ve felt a little embarrassed about going from confused and slightly annoyed to rock-hard in two seconds flat, except that _definitely_ wasn’t Napoleon’s gun pressing against his hip. He slid his hands down, gripping Napoleon’s ass firmly. Napoleon thrust up against him with a groan.

And Illya was not, _absolutely not_ , going to have sex with Napoleon against the wall of a tiny, filthy little hidey hole, while in the middle of a mission to boot. The KGB had taught him better than that. He told Napoleon as much.

"Promises, promises," sighed Napoleon. He slid one hand down between Illya’s legs, and _squeezed_.

Illya made a strangled noise.

The tiny part of Illya’s brain still capable of rational thought listed all the reasons this was a spectacularly bad idea, and also, if the men who had found him carefully abstracting the contents of their target’s securely triple-locked safe didn’t catch them with their pants down – _literally_ – and kill them, Mr. Waverly would, because what they were doing in here was _most decidedly_ not what he was paying them to do.

With deft fingers, Napoleon undid his fly and started to stroke him firmly. Rational thought died a quick death.

With a growl, Illya surged forward, roughly yanking Napoleon’s pants down to his knees, mashing their mouths together again. Napoleon took them both in hand, and any remaining semblance of coherence fled as Illya lost himself in the delicious friction, fingers digging into Napoleon’s hips hard enough to bruise, Napoleon groaning into his mouth as they shuddered together.

 

***

 

When his brain finally deigned to start functioning again, Illya found himself slumped bonelessly against Napoleon, nose mashed into the crook of his neck. Napoleon was wiping them both off with what Illya sincerely hoped was a handkerchief, and not a more essential item of clothing.

He dimly registered footsteps just outside their hiding place, and a pair of voices. It seemed that the men chasing them had decided to split up and search different areas of the mansion, leaving just two men for them to deal with in this wing before making their escape.

“Well,” said Napoleon slightly breathlessly, tucking Illya back into his pants and zipping him up. “I think that’s our cue.” He gave Illya’s crotch a loving pat for good measure.

“Sleep darts, not bullets, I think,” he added thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t want to make any more of a mess than we just did.” Illya could hear the grin in his partner’s voice. He sighed in a long-suffering manner.

Napoleon laughed. “Ready, Peril?”

“Always, Cowboy.”

Napoleon touched the panel that opened the hidden door, and they stepped out shoulder-to-shoulder, guns at the ready.

 

\- End -

 


End file.
